


"Being an Artist Kid Can be Hard, But Having an Artist Kid Can be Worse, or:  Five Times Peter told Neal he was Proud of Him"

by Ivorysilk



Category: White Collar
Genre: De-Aged Neal - Freeform, Gen, White Collar Reverse Big Bang 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:27:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2888501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivorysilk/pseuds/Ivorysilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty much what it says on the tin.  And despite the warnings, this really is pretty fluffy, I swear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Being an Artist Kid Can be Hard, But Having an Artist Kid Can be Worse, or:  Five Times Peter told Neal he was Proud of Him"

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Reference to child abuse. Reference to illness. Reference to character death. Lack of beta. Light angst and plenty of sticky, treacly sap. But extra spoiler-free!  
> 

**Title:** "Being an Artist Kid Can be Hard, But Having an Artist Kid Can be Worse, or: Five Times Peter told Neal he was Proud of Him"  
 **Artist:** The lovely and talented Evian-Fork! (ibrahilprang@gmail.com)  
 **Author:** Ivorysilk  
 **Word Count:** Approx. 7500.  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Canon pairings—Peter Burke, de-aged Neal, Elizbeth Burke.  
 **Thanks** so much to Evian-Fork for the lovely, awesome artwork—I was thrilled to write for it, and I hope you like how the story turned out :-)

Thanks also, eternally, to the awesome and amazing hoosierbitch for taking time to cheerlead and encourage while I was despairing the night before this was due, and to Elr and RC, for always being encouraging and gracious, despite my many challenges, and to the mods for running this comm and setting all this up. This is the last thing I've written in forever, so I'm extra-grateful for them helping me to get this done--and to my few, wonderful, loyal readers who've recently sent me comments--particularly junnights, who was particularly encouraging. I am grateful for each comment, treasure each one, and they really do give me motivation to write. No mention of the National Soy Museum (YET), although I promise Neal is commissioned to paint for them in the unwritten part. There's a timestamp in my head, I swear!

Artwork

Link to the fic post 

 

I.

****************************

Neal doesn’t know how he ended up here. He’s in a room, and it’s neat and clean and – and pretty. It’s all soft colours and soft things, and Neal doesn’t know why he’s here, or how he’s here, and he’s afraid to touch anything.

He’s covered in a blanket, and it’s pale green, and it’s softer than any blanket Neal’s ever had, and it smells good, too. There’s a dog, in a corner of the room, and he looks—he’s bigger than Grover ever was, his coat shiny and smooth and well brushed, and looks really comfortable, in a soft dog bed in the corner that matches the rest of the room, looking back at Neal like he belongs there and Neal --

Neal’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to be here.

He sits up. The blanket falls to the ground, and Neal is too late to catch it. He scrambles up, because he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t—

A woman comes through the far doorway. She’s got dark hair piled on her head and she’s—beautiful. She’s got blue eyes like Neal, and she’s wearing a purple sweater, and it looks soft too, like something Neal wants to touch, but he knows he shouldn’t. Instead, Neal stands up, tries to straighten his clothes and smooth out his hair, and picks up the blanket and tries to fold it fast, before she reaches Neal.

Neal fails. The blanket is big and soft and the folds keep sliding away faster than Neal can catch them.

“I’m – hello, Ma’am,” tries Neal, smiling. “I’m – I’m Neal.” He shoves the blanket behind him on the couch. First rule—never admit guilt before you know what the other person is mad about.

“Neal, sweetie, how do you feel?”

“I’m – I’m fine?” Neal tries, startled, because she doesn’t sound mad, and it’s throwing him off. He recovers quickly, though, and says, “I’m fine. I—“ and then, he can’t help himself and blurts, “How did I get here? I—“ and then catches himself again, and lowers his eyes, “Ma’am.” Maybe he fell or something? He can’t remember. He thinks he might be late, and his mom will be mad. He needs to go home.

The lady smiles at him, crouching down so her face is level with his. “I’m Elizabeth,” she says. “And I’m not sure how you got here, either, to be honest. But you’re here now, and I think you’ll be staying here a while; is that okay with you?”

 _No!_ Neal wants to shout, but that wouldn’t do at all, so he swallows, and says, “I – I don’t think so, ma’am. I should be going home.” He swallows again. “Uh, thank you for the offer. Ma’am.”

“Neal,” says Elizabeth, and she looks a little worried now, “I’m sorry, but—but this is your home. For now, anyway. I – well, Peter and I—we can’t let you go home, not right now. You’re too young to be on your own, and Peter, well, Peter’s responsible for you. But it’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

Is he being kidnapped? Neal wonders. His dad always talked about stupid kids who wandered away and got kidnapped. “Who’s Peter,” he asks instead, before adding, “My father’s a police officer. He won’t – “

“Neal, I know your father isn’t living with you right now, and your mother and Ellen won’t mind. I promise.”

Neal’s panicking now, because how does she know their names; his father has told him all about what happens to kids that talk to strangers and Neal doesn’t want—he wants to go home, because –

“Oh, Neal,” says Elizabeth, “Don’t cry, baby. It’s okay, I promise. Peter’s a kind of police officer too, and you’re very safe here, and he’ll explain everything when he gets here. I know it seems scary, but everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

Neal isn’t sure exactly how he will see, but Elizabeth’s face is soft, and kind, and she’s holding out her hand to him.

It’s easy for Neal to reach out his own hand to take hers, and when he does, he realizes that her sweater really is as soft as it looks.

************************

After a few weeks, the Burkes register Neal in school. Neal still isn’t sure of things—he keeps wondering when everything will disappear, or he will—because it’s so— _weird._ Mr. Burke—Peter—is so nice to him, like, all the time. He doesn’t yell, even when Neal bumped into the little table in the front hall and broke a vase--all he did was snatch Neal out of the way and ask Neal if he’d gotten hurt. He doesn’t hit Neal, even when Neal is too loud or forgets to do something he was told, like put his shoes into the closet. And he never makes Neal go without dinner, even after that day that Neal got scared by the thunderstorm like a stupid _baby_ and started crying and couldn’t stop.

And Elizabeth always hugs him and makes him the best food, ever, all the time. And she lets him have seconds, of anything he wants, even when he doesn’t ask, and especially when he does.

They both buy Neal new clothes he likes and that fit him perfectly.

Elizabeth takes him shopping for school supplies, and Neal gets a new backpack, new shoes for gym class, notebooks and pencils and scissors and a ruler and a case to put them in with Leonardo on the side (because he’s Neal’s favourite Turtle) and a whole pack of coloured pencils that Neal didn’t even ask for.

Neal’s never had the big pack before.

Neal smiles and thanks Elizabeth, because he knows all that stuff costs a lot. His father used to tell him, all the time, and his mom never bought him any more than the things that were exactly on his school supply list.

Neal knows that Elizabeth doesn’t even have to buy this stuff. No one will think badly of her if she doesn’t. He’s not really her kid.

But Elizabeth just smiles at him, and tells him she loves shopping, and which lunchbox does he like best?

Neal knows he has it good. He knows that this is better than home. He loves his mom, he does, but she didn’t always remember to make him breakfast and sometimes the bread he took for school lunch was moldy past the crust and he couldn’t eat it, and he misses her, _he does_ , she’s his mom and of course he does, but still.

Elizabeth always packs him stuff at lunch that is delicious. And she often puts a note in his box, with a smiley face or a funny sticker, just to make Neal smile.

Neal likes it at the Burkes.

And so he’s careful. He’s really, really careful, because he doesn’t want them to find out that he’s really bad. He knows that once they do, they’ll either get mad--or worse, send him away.

Or both.

So on Saturday, after almost two months of living with the Burkes, when Elizabeth is busy and hands him a set of paints and a real artists’ sketchbook, he knows what it really is.

A test.

_“Do you know who artists are, boy?” His dad’s holding Neal’s picture in one hand a bottle of beer in the other, but his dad’s not drunk. His dad has told him, and told his mom, that he never drinks enough to get drunk. He just drinks enough to let him cope with his stupid wife and stupider son, to take the edge off, so he’s not always as angry as they really deserve._

_“People that make art?” Neal tries to makes his voice quiet, respectful. He sees his mother coming into the room, looking worried. He tries to look good, like the kids in books, like kids on TV, but Neal doesn’t really know how._

_His mom had liked the picture, had put it up on the fridge, the way that sometimes parents did on TV. The school had sent her a note, with the picture, but Neal hadn’t read it._

_Neal wished she hadn’t put it up on the fridge. He wishes she had hidden it away, where his dad couldn’t see it, like all the other things they hid away._

_“Only thieves and degenerates are artists, Neal. I won’t have my kid being a degenerate. Or a criminal. Is that what you are, boy, just a thief?”_

Of course Neal denies it, but that makes Neal a liar, Daddy says. And liars need to be punished, they are worse than thieves. His mom won’t defend him, Neal knows. Neal doesn’t deserve it and besides, all that means is his mom gets punished too (for giving Daddy a liar for a son, for not being a good enough mom to fix Neal) and he made her promise a long time ago not to say anything. He told her he’d be good.

But Neal is bad. There’s something bad in him, he knows it. Because even though he knew better, he didn’t stop drawing.

He’d _never_ stopped. Even though he knows that only bad kids draw. Because Neal also doesn’t know how to be good.

So Neal draws. He draws when he is sad, and when he is lonely, and when his dad is angry, which is a lot. It’s just that after that incident, Neal knows better than to draw so anyone can see. He knows better than to show anyone what he draws.

Neal has lots of secrets. His drawings are just one more.

Neal has lots of secrets, and by the time he finds himself at Peter and Elizabeth’s, Neal has become very good at keeping them.

Except.

Except one day. When he comes home from school, ready to add his latest drawing--done in colored pencil, out on the field at school, where no one can see—to all the other drawings and paintings carefully stacked on the bottom of his sock drawer.

Except his stash isn’t there. It’s not there, and Neal empties out all his drawers, one after another, until Elizabeth finds him, panting and frantic. Finds him, and calls him into the living room, where they are both waiting, the evidence in her hands.

She wasn’t supposed to tell, Neal thinks, blinking back tears. She wasn’t supposed to tell.

Because Peter is frowning, and the drawings are all over the coffee table. Neal’s drawings. Neal’s paintings. Neal’s sketches.

Drawings of Satchmo, of his room, of his school bus and of _them_.

Neal wants to run. He wants to hide and to scream. He does none of that.

Because he’s smart, and there’s no place to go, and screaming never helps. He knows that. So Neal does what Neal does best. The only thing he can do.

He lies.

“They’re not mine,” he says. “I got Sarah at school to do them. I traded her my paints for a sandwich, and she drew me stuff, because she wants to be my girlfriend.”

“Neal,” said Elizabeth, and she looked upset, even though it was true that Sarah was well known at school for being able to draw really good, all the teachers said so, “it’s okay.”

Peter’s still frowning, and it’s like he can tell Neal’s lying. “Neal,” said Peter, “these drawings are very good. Are you sure they’re not yours?”

Neal shakes his head. “No! I didn’t—“

“Neal,” says Elizabeth, and then she sighs and looks at Peter. “You know we love you no matter what, right?”

Neal nods and smiles. It’s not true, but it’s a nice idea.

“Neal,” says Peter slowly, “I know it’s been hard for you, being here, not being with your parents, but I want you to be able to tell us anything. I want you to know that you can. However old you are, whatever is going on--we’re always going to be here for you.”

“I want to be good,” blurts Neal, before he can help himself. He claps a hand over his mouth, horrified.

“Neal,” says Elizabeth, looking pained, “you’re doing really well at school, you keep your room clean, you do your homework every night, and you are always polite. We don’t expect you to be perfect. It’s okay to make some mistakes.”

Neal shakes his head, because of course it’s not. And Elizabeth’s just being nice, he knows he’s not as smart as the other kids and has to take special classes at school. He’s stupid, but he’s not an idiot.

Neal inches towards the drawings, wondering if he can snatch them up, hide them, make them go away and then everything can go back to how it was. He had tried _so hard_.

But Peter is bigger and faster, coming over to Neal and crouching right in front of him, raising a hand. Neal cringes back before he can stop himself.

Peter puts his hand down, and looks sad now, and it’s confusing.

“We’re proud of you, Neal,” Peter says, but he doesn’t look proud.

Peter looks disappointed, and so Neal knows Peter is lying, too.

**********************

II.

A long time ago, Neal used to think his drawing made him special. He used to think that even though he wasn’t as tall as Trevor or as smart as Justin, even though he might not know as much as Sarah or be able to run really fast like Benny, he liked to draw, and his teacher said he could draw really good. His Daddy said he wasn’t not good for much but wasting money, and Daddy was always right. Mommy said so. But Neal had thought that maybe his drawings were good.

Because all Neal can really do is draw.

Neal knows he is just a stupid kid, and drawing is pointless and useless and if he was really smart, he’d learn to do something useful.

Peter plays catch with him, sometimes, in the backyard. Peter said that once, he almost had a job playing baseball, before he got a job at the F.B.I. Neal works hard at playing catch. He also tries really hard to like playing catch, to like it more than he likes drawing.

Neal knows it would make Peter happy if Neal could catch properly, could play well, could do the kinds of things—could _like_ the kinds of things--good boys do. His dad was the same. Neal understands that he’s the problem—not his dad, and not Peter.

Neal knows, too, that the Burkes used to know him when he was an adult. He knows this, because he’s not an idiot, and he’s seen photos, and Mozzie—who was apparently his friend when he was grown and now is Elizabeth and maybe even Peter’s friend—told him. Mozzie tells him things, which Neal appreciates, even when Elizabeth and Peter won’t.

And Neal knows that Elizabeth and Peter are just waiting for Neal to go back to who he was.

Except no one will tell him who that was, even Mozzie, and Neal doesn’t know. He doesn’t know who he’s supposed to be.

And it’s been years, and Neal is still not fully grown. He wakes up every morning, wondering if he’s a grown up, but every morning he checks, and every morning he’s still just himself.

Just Neal.

So Neal tries to pretend it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t care, and that he’s good enough anyway. He pretends a lot. He pretends he loves playing catch, and watches how Peter lights up when he makes tryouts for Little League, when he begs Peter to stay out just another hour to practice, when he works hard at pretending he likes gym class and baseball season way more than art class.

Because Neal loves his art class. He loves learning about artists and he loves the smell of pastels, he loves the art books with their beautiful glossy pages and he loves his art teacher, Ms. Morris, with her long red hair and big green eyes. And she likes Neal too, Neal knows. She likes him way better than the other students, and she is always giving him extra pointers and telling him little stories about art things, and the other day, she’d given him a brochure about LaGuardia Arts, and another for a summer arts program that offered scholarships and would help him build a portfolio, and suggested he talk to his parents about it Neal thanked her, and tucked it into his back pocket, and then hid it in a secret compartment he’d built into the back of his closet.

It sounded great. But he liked living at the Burkes’ better.

Neal forgets about it, because Christmas is coming up, and Elizabeth always bakes a lot and he likes helping her decorate, and she promises to take him to the art gallery she used to work at during the holidays, and even though Neal shrugs carefully and says he “wouldn’t mind”, he’s really more excited about that than about the basketball game that Peter gets them tickets to.

And then one day, right before the holidays, Neal gets called to the principal’s office. Neal smiles when he hears the PA announcement, stands up and flashes a smile at Brittany Nicole who never really liked him, and at Connor, who’s always getting called to the principal’s office, and puts his stuff carefully into his backpack before leaving the classroom. Casual, deliberate, like this is okay.

Even when it’s not. Because only bad kids get called to the principal’s office, and Neal has worked so careful, and worked so hard.

And it was almost Christmas.

When Neal goes to the office, the secretary shows him into the principal’s sitting room area. Both the Burkes are there, when Neal arrives--as well as Ms. Morris.

Neal doesn’t understand. He thought Ms. Morris _liked_ him.

Principal Ruzzo tells him to sit down. There’s an empty seat, and Principal Ruzzo waves at him, telling him he can take a candy from the dish on his desk.

Neal sits. He doesn’t take a candy. He sits on his hands, and doesn’t say anything.

“I bet you’re wondering why we called you down here, young man,” says Principal Ruzzo. He looks stern, and he doesn’t smile. Neal shifts in his seat.

“You’re not in trouble, Neal,” says Elizabeth, but she looks worried.

“We just wanted to talk to you,” said Ms. Morris, “about high school.”

“I’m not graduating this year,” said Neal, because he wasn’t, even though he was all caught up, and his report card only had that one stupid B.

In gym. Neal had begged his gym teacher, promised to do anything, but it had stayed. Just because he couldn’t run as fast as Dennis. He would, though, next year. Dennis was just bigger because he was almost a year older, because Neal was born in November and Dennis was born in January. It wasn’t fair.

“No,” said Ms. Morris, “but there are a couple of programs I wanted your parents to consider for you over the summer. There’s a really good one at the Guggenheim, and actually, your mom knows a lot of artists that would be happy to help you. Have you thought about it, Neal? Your parents were surprised when I called them; they said you haven’t really shown an interest in art at home, and they didn’t even know you were taking an art class at school.”

Neal stayed absolutely still and stared at the floor, even though he could feel Peter’s eyes on him. Neal had been really careful to wipe off any mention of the art class off his report card. That technique with a razor Mozzie had once shown him worked really well.

“Neal?” asked Peter, but Neal didn’t say anything.

“Neal,” said Elizabeth gently, and she’s in front of him and her hands were on his chin, gently tipping his face up, “do you want to go to art school?”

Neal bit his lip. He can see Peter behind her, looking intently at Neal, and Neal can’t stop the tears. He can’t, and—

“I’m sorry,” whispers Neal, “I thought about it, but I wasn’t going to--I’m sorry—“

“Neal,” interrupts Peter, “your teacher has shown us some of your drawings, and they are wonderful. Why would you hide them?”

“You want—you don’t want—“ Neal wants to explain, wants to tell them, tell them he’ll be whatever Peter wants him to be, if only they’ll keep him, but he can’t, he can’t find the right words and he’ll give it up, he’s ready, he was stupid and a little kid but he’s—

“Neal,” said Peter firmly, and now Peter is in front of Neal too, and Peter’s hands are strong on Neal’s shoulders, and he says, “Listen to me. “We always knew you were talented, but we didn’t want to push you when you said you weren’t interested. But Ms. Morris has shown us a couple of your pieces, and they are incredible. It would be wrong to waste your talent, especially not when you don’t have to. We don’t care what you do, do you understand? We’re proud of you, El and I. Very proud. You’re an amazing kid, and we love you. But I think you’d be an amazing artist, and I think you should try.”

“What if I end up being an artist?” whispers Neal. “What if that’s all I am?”

“Then I’ll still be the proudest man in the city of New York,” said Peter, "and we’ll both still love you.”

And Peter is smiling, and Elizabeth is smiling, and behind them, Ms. Morris clears her throat.

“Well, Neal,” says Ms. Morris, “We don’t have a lot of time, and I want to talk to your parents about a couple of things afterwards, so let’s talk about LaGuardia Arts, then, and their requirements.”

*******

After the meeting, after Peter and Elizabeth found out that Neal had secretly enrolled in his school’s art class and had been altering his gym mark and hadn’t made the track team, Neal was told he had been referred to the school therapist, and that he would have to start seeing her every week. And Neal had apologized and begged and promised and offered to do anything he could think of if only he didn’t have to go, but Peter and Elizabeth were adamant.

They also told him it was really important he always was honest and told the truth, and they loved him, but they didn’t understand what he’d done and that they wanted to help.

Neal didn’t think someone asking him questions about all the wrong things he had done would help. He didn’t think it would help at all. He almost wished Peter would hit him, because that would be so much easier to deal with.

Besides which, he’d worked so hard to fit in.

He’d worked so hard to be what they wanted--and they still didn’t think he was quite right.

Neal decided he had to show them that he could be better.

So in the weeks before his first appointment, Neal made sure he was _perfect_. He didn’t touch his report card when it came for the quarter. He did his homework and studied hard for every exam and told Tom he couldn’t let him cheat off him anymore (even though that meant he’d be kicked off the basketball court after school, which Neal told himself he didn’t even enjoy anyway). He did the dishes after dinner and cleaned his room and helped Elizabeth with the laundry.

The night before his appointment, he tried again. He’d be missing math class, which he didn’t mind, but the appointment filled him with unnamed dread. He’d thought about just not going—skipping it, just not going, going to the library or something and saying he’d forgotten instead. But none of the plans seemed like they’d work. The only way was to get them to cancel it.

“Elizabeth?” he asked, as she came to check on him before bed.

“Yes, sweetheart?” she said, after kissing his hair and asking if he’d finished his homework and before he said his prayers.

He had.

“The appointment with Dr. Lawson is tomorrow.”

“Yes, honey, it is. Are you nervous?”

“No, but I—I don’t think I need to go. There’s probably some other kid that needs to go. I’m fine. I’ll work harder at gym, I promise, you can tell Peter—“

“Sweetie, we don’t care about your grades. Your grades are fine. More than. That’s not why we’re worried about you.”

“I thought I was good,” Neal said in a whisper.

“You are, Neal,” said Elizabeth. She sighed, and Neal wanted to erase whatever he’d said, start over, because she looked worried and stressed, and Neal knew it was his fault. “Come sit beside me a sec, okay?” She patted the bed.

Neal went.

Elizabeth put her arms around him, and Neal couldn’t help but lean into her. She was warm and her hair was soft and she smelled like fresh rain and flowers. “Peter and I, we love you very much. We love you so much it scares us. We’ve always loved you, back before you came to live with us, and ever since we met you. We just want you to be happy. But you’re not. You’re scared, all the time, and I—I don’t want you to be.”

“I’m not. I’m fine. I promise,” said Neal, trying to reassure her.

Trying to convince her.

“Neal,” said Elizabeth, and she sounded like she wanted to cry, “sweetie, that’s the problem. You don’t have to be. But we don’t think you really understand that. Listen, I get that you’re scared. But it’s ok. All you have to do is try it, and if you hate it, or don’t like it, you can stop. Okay? And if you want, I’ll come with you, or Peter will, or both of us will, if you want. All you have to do is say the word.”

“You’ll come?” Neal asked, and his voice was small, because he didn’t, he didn’t want to go alone, and maybe Elizabeth could tell them—

“I’ll see you tomorrow, all right? Now get into bed, and afterwards, we’ll go for ice cream. It’ll be fine, I promise.”

And it was.

Neal had been half-afraid all morning that Elizabeth would forget, but she didn’t. She showed up, exactly fifteen minutes before his appointment, just like she’d said she would, and then told him she’d wait. And Dr. Lawson had been really nice, and had told Neal she’d heard he was an artist and so he could draw for part of the appointment and didn’t even have to talk if he didn’t want to, and then Elizabeth had pulled him out of the rest of the school day and taken him for ice cream and asked if he wanted to go back and that he didn’t have to if he didn’t want.

But Neal told her it wasn’t that bad, and so he began seeing Dr. Lawson every week on Tuesdays, and the rest of the year they’d met and experimented with different art mediums, even sculpture, and she’d told him about some of the more famous artists, and she never took notes or anything, and Neal found himself telling her things he didn’t think he’d ever tell anyone.

And when he showed his (unaltered) final report card that year to his parents, when Peter ruffled his hair and Elizabeth put it on the fridge and even when he got a merit award that year—and even despite the B- he’d gotten in gym class—when Peter told Neal he was proud of him, and then offered to help Neal with his batting swing—

Neal didn’t worry that Peter wanted to return him, or that he’d have been happier with John, whose batting swing was perfect.

No, when Peter ruffled his hair and swung him shrieking up in the air even though he wasn’t a little kid anymore--

Neal believed him.

Just a little, but he did.

******************************

III.

Neal is bored. School isn’t going to start for another week, and he can’t wait. Elizabeth told him he had ants in his pants, Peter just made fun of him, but—

He is going to LaGuardia Arts. They’ve accepted him, and written a letter saying how excited they are to have him in their program, and Peter had laughed and ruffled his hair and hugged him, and Elizabeth had baked him a cake, and they’d both –

They’d told him they were proud. Of him.

And Neal had grinned and asked for a cake shaped like a painter’s palette. And they’d gotten him one, and had a party for him and all the kids in the summer art program he’d taken at the Guggenheim the last couple of years, and it had been _awesome_.

But now he’s just bored, and Peter and Elizabeth are both busy with work stuff, and he’s got a whole week left before school starts, so he decides to see if there’s anything he can use for sculpture in the attic. Peter and Elizabeth have a whole bunch of junk up there, and sometimes, if it’s broken and Peter’s never actually going to fix it, they let him take it apart and use it for whatever he wants.

So he pokes around for a good half hour, wondering if the stand alone fan or the ancient cassette tapes would be good for anything, when—

He finds a box. A big banker’s box, and when he opens it, it’s—

It’s him.

It’s him, but grown up. There are pictures of him in a dark grey suit and tie, smiling; pictures of him standing beside Peter in Peter’s office (Neal’s been; he knows sometimes Peter wants him to be an F.B.I. agent but is okay if Neal just wants to be an artist instead), and pictures of him at the house, wearing a turtleneck sweater and sitting beside Elizabeth and smiling.

Neal figures the old him was an F.B.I. agent. He smiles. That explains why—

And then he sees it. A mugshot. _Caffrey, Neal_ , the caption reads, and Neal knows Caffrey was his mother’s maiden name, it wasn’t even his real last name, and his birthdate reads March and not December and that’s wrong too but—

It’s him.

And then, Neal finds a file folder, and inside it, there’s all kinds of information. Information about who Neal was. Information about what Neal used to do.

Art thief. Forger. Con artist. Swindler.

Criminal.

And then there’s a report, with Peter’s name at the top. A report about Neal—about who Neal had been. Dangerous. Amoral. Smart. Talented. Ruthless.

Bad.

Neal’s crying, and he’s shaking, and he can’t think. They’d lied. Peter and Elizabeth had lied to him, they’d lied to him for years, they didn’t love him, they’d never loved him and they thought he was bad, he was rotten and bad and they—

“God, Neal,” says Peter, and Peter’s arms are around him, and Neal is making sounds, but he can’t hear what they are, and the world is rushing around him and Peter is rocking him, rocking him and talking and he can’t get away and he can’t hear and nothing makes sense anymore—

“Shhhh,” says Peter. “It’s okay, everything’s okay, I promise. I love you. I love you, and everything is okay, all right?”

“No,” says Neal dully. “You hate me. You hate me, and you – why didn’t you tell me I was bad? You knew, you knew my dad was right, and you let me—“ Neal’s voice is rising, he can’t stop himself, the whole world is crumbling and--

“Neal,” said Peter, shaking him, “Listen to me. Listen to me. You’re not bad. You’ve _never_ been bad. Your father was wrong, do you hear me? He was wrong, Neal. I don’t know how else to explain it. And I’ve always loved you. I know you didn’t ask to come here, and I know I’m probably making a muck of everything, but I love you. And yes, I arrested you, but that was before I knew you, kid. You were one of the best friends I ever had, you were bright and brilliant and talented and you saved my life, Neal. I loved you then, and I love you even more now. I love you, and you’re not bad.”

Neal doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand how a criminal isn’t bad. He doesn’t understand.

“Neal,” says Peter slowly. “You have lots of questions, I know. And I think I have to explain things, and it’s going to be hard, and I know it’s really complicated, but give me a chance to explain, okay? Please? I love you, son, and I want you to understand how much I love you, and how proud I am of you, my little boy all grown up and getting into LaGuardia High. But I also want you to understand—I never thought you were bad. And I was always proud of you. So please let me explain.”

The words wash over Neal, and everything feels unreal, like he’s in a dream, or underwater. But he owes Peter. He was—is—a criminal, and Peter let him stay anyway, and he owes Peter—

“Okay,” he nods slowly. “Okay. But I want ice cream.”

Peter laughs, and the laugh is filled with relief, and Neal is more confused, as if Peter cares what he thinks, but Peter just says, “Whatever flavor you want, Neal. Whatever you want.”

Three hours later, Neal is sitting at the dining room table, working on a pint of butter pecan from Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory and listening to Peter—with editorial commentary from Elizabeth--tell him how his alter-ego once helped Peter convict criminals called the “Dutchman” and the “Ghost”, or how he was the reason the Timothy Nolan Memorial Park in East Harlem was built. Peter talks about how well he worked with Neal, how high their solve rate was, and how much of an asset Neal had been to their team.

Before Peter is done, but long after Neal’s bed time, when Elizabeth decides the rest can wait for tomorrow and Neal has admitted he’s kind of sleepy, Neal asks him, “Do you miss him? I mean, the older me?”

“Yes,” says Peter honestly. “I do. We both do. He was our friend, and we loved him. But you’re our _son_ , Neal. I wouldn’t give you up for the world, and neither would El.”

“Do you worry? I mean, do you ever think that I’ll—“

“Never,” says Elizabeth immediately.

Peter’s answer comes more slowly. Neal waits, and the ice cream melts, as Peter answers.

“Neal, the man I once knew made a lot of mistakes, before I met him. I knew that, and he knew that, and he ended up paying for those mistakes. I didn’t want that for him, because I knew he was worth more than that, but I also knew how amazing he could be if he was given the chance. So I tried to give him that chance. But you’re our kid, and from the second you walked through those doors, I have been amazed by you. You didn’t need a chance, you needed half a chance, and you’ve never stopped amazing us. You make us proud every day, Neal. Every day. Don’t ever think otherwise.”

Neal stays still a minute, before sliding off the bar stool and putting his spoon in the sink.

Then he turns and hugs Peter quickly, and then Elizabeth.

“Okay,” he says, “Okay, but tomorrow, I want strawberry. You’ve still got a lot of explaining to do, dad.”

************************

IV.

Neal turns the envelope over in his hands. Six months ago, he was—

Six months ago, he’d thought going to school—to art school—in Europe, would be the best thing ever. The only thing he’d wanted, the only thing he’d dreamed of. And of his five applications, he’d gotten five acceptances—two locally—Rhode Island, Chicago—and three from Europe—the Royal Academy in the Hague, the Academy in Prague, the Sorbonne because he thought it would be cool to live in Paris, in the shadow of the Louvre. Full scholarships for each one.

All of his classmates would have killed for any of these acceptances. Even without the funding.

But that was months ago, and Neal hasn’t taken any of them. Instead, he’s taken a waiter job at a restaurant not too far from home, telling his parents he wanted a gap year, he wanted to think about what he wanted to do next. Find himself as an artist.

Peter thinks he goes to the café to people watch all day and sketch, to the Met to be inspired, to the Guggenheim to soak in atmosphere. Elizabeth thinks he’s been working too hard, needs to slow down, not be in such a rush. Neal thinks she’s happy he’s still close.

He can hear Peter in the other room, he can hear Elizabeth, and he shoves the envelope back into the box, grabs his bag from the floor before crossing the hall to their bedroom and knocking.

“Dad?” he asks, quietly. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, Neal, everything’s fine. You off again?” Peter’s voice is equally hushed. Elizabeth is lying still on the bed. Neal hopes she’s asleep. She’s been so tired.

“Yeah, don’t wait up. I’ll be back late, all right? You’re home for a while, can you call me if you have to go out?”

“Sure thing, kid,” Peter says, even as Elizabeth turns her head where she’s lying on the bed, propped up by pillows, eyes closed. Her skin is pale, and her voice, when she speaks, weak.

“Neal, baby,” she says softly, “Don’t worry, all right? You should be enjoying this year, thinking about your future. We’ll be fine.” It’s like she sees Neal’s anxiety, even without looking at him, and Neal feels a rush of affection tied up with a sharp surge of the fear that never leaves him now, ever since her diagnosis in May.

“I know,” says Neal, crossing over to her to lay his hand gently on hers where it lies on the mattress. “I know.”

It’s no longer startling to see Elizabeth without her glorious long hair, but she’d cried for a week when it had first started falling out, whenever she thought Neal couldn’t see. Neal wishes, suddenly and harshly, that he wasn’t just a kid, anymore. That he was the other Neal, who had talent and skill and could accomplish so much, that he could do the things Peter had told him the other Neal could do.

Something must have shown on his face, because Peter’s hand is on his shoulder, and he’s gesturing Neal into the other room. Or he just wants to let Elizabeth rest.

“Neal,” says Peter, “what’s going on?”

“Do you ever wish,” says Neal, “that I was the other Neal? That I wasn’t just some kid, that I could do something useful—“

“Stop,” says Peter and his voice is harsh. “Stop. No. Never, Neal. I miss the Neal Caffrey I once knew, because he was a fun guy, and a good co-worker. But I love Neal Burke, and I couldn’t imagine my life without him. You’re my kid, Neal. Elizabeth and I—you’ve brought so much joy into our lives, we are so blessed to have you, you don’t even know.”

“I know you need money for the drugs,” blurts Neal, miserable. “And I used to wish—“

“Neal,” says Peter firmly, in his best parent voice. “I will manage that. The F.B.I. has an excellent medical—“

Neal cuts Peter and his vague reassurances off. “It doesn’t cover these, and Mom needs them. I know. I heard you guys, and also, you left the information on the table last night. I read it.”

“I’ll figure something out, Neal. You don’t have to worry,” repeats Peter.

“How can I not worry?” asks Neal.

“Neal, I don’t want you to do anything that will compromise your future,” Peter begins carefully, and Neal stares for a minute, amazed, and then starts to laugh.

“Look, here,” says Neal, and pulls the money out of his pocket. He doesn’t have time to wait, not anymore. Elizabeth needs these _now_ and there’s no way for Neal to explain, to try to justify what he’s done.

“What is this?” asks Peter, frowning. “Neal, what did you do?” He sounds almost—scared, staring at the money, and then up, to look at Neal’s face. Peter’s face is stern, older, closed off, almost angry--

Neal takes a step back. “I took a job,” says Neal, tiredly. He doesn’t even know what Peter is thinking.

Peter narrows his eyes at him.

“Yeah. A job. I—there’s a gallery down the street, people want portraits, sometimes, so I paint them. It’s not much, but it’s something. And I bartend, most nights, up the street, they let me pick up shifts whenever I want, too. I—Dad, it’s enough.”

“You—you did all this,” says Peter slowly.

“Yeah,” says Neal, confused. What did he think he’d do?

“You know one of your art schools called the other day,” says Peter slowly. “Left you a message that if the scholarship wasn’t enough, they could defer your acceptance and offer you a bursary.”

Neal blinks. “Which one?” he asks, because. What else is he going to say?

And because a small, terrible part of him is thrilled, is hopeful, is already calculating possibilities--

“Rhode Island, I think. Neal, we’ve had this discussion about honesty before.” His father’s eyes on him are searching, piercing, analyzing.

“I couldn’t,” says Neal simply. How could he? How could he go away, while—

He couldn’t.

And then Peter surges forward, suddenly. “I love you, Neal Burke,” he says. “I don’t know how I ever got so lucky to get a son and one as amazing as you, but I must have done something right, once, because here you are. I love you, and I’m so glad you agreed to be our son. Thank you.”

When his dad pulls back, there are tears in his eyes. There might have been tears in Neal’s eyes, too, but he won’t admit it. “I’m glad you decided to keep me,” Neal says awkwardly. “I was kind of a pain.”

“No,” says his father firmly. “No. You were always a gift, Neal. Always.”

********************

V.

Neal doesn’t paint either of his mothers a lot. He’s only ever done a few portraits of Elizabeth, even, and none for sale. One for Peter. One for Mozzie. One for her, a birthday gift, his parents together, and one for himself, so he could have her near him always, as he remembered her. When he paints her, it’s as she was—surrounded by beauty, active and vibrant, warm and alive.

The only portrait of her to ever see auction was one he donated to the Brooklyn Children’s Museum, painted from a photograph of the two of them eating ice cream at the park on a summer day, and it went to the Met for about half a million.

He remembers that day well, and he’s always loved ice cream.

“You did a good thing,” says his father, coming up behind him.

“Well,” replies Neal. “It’s not exactly a park.”

“Hey, well, you kind of did that too. But this is pretty great, Neal. A wing with your name on it!” His father’s smile is broad and beaming.

“A wing with our name on it. It’s hers, too—well, really, if you read the plaque, it’s actually dedicated to her. You know she’d have loved it. Half my love for art, for beautiful things, I swear it came from her,” says Neal. Because his mother—Elizabeth—she’d made sure, once she knew he enjoyed it, to ensure he received a thorough education in the arts. Every weekend, she’d dragged him along to children’s programs at the Met, exhibits at this very Children’s Museum, little obscure art galleries and sometimes just out in the woods to be inspired. Her enthusiasm had been infectious, and her love for beauty and design had fed Neal’s soul.

“She was so pissed when she found out you’d given up Prague,” Peter chuckled.

“Well, when she called and told them about the situation, they also offered to defer my acceptance, if you remember, and then swung a nice bursary my way too.” Neal smiled at the memory. Elizabeth, lying in bed and ranting, swinging a phone like a battle axe, had been something to behold. “And it was wonderful. It was all because of her I got to go.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, kiddo,” Peter says, "you worked for that acceptance." He's quiet for a minute, and then he says, “You know, Neal, back when, when I was chasing your alter-ego—“

“Neal Caffrey?” Neal's voice is sharp, but Peter's when he answers, is calm and contemplative.

“Yes. When I was chasing Caffrey, I wondered. I wondered who he would have been, if he’d had a mother like Elizabeth. And now I have to say, I never imagined. I never imagined anything like this.”

“She’d have liked it, right?” asks Neal, staring at the building, with its arches and trailing ribbon, suddenly needing to hear it. Suddenly needing to know—

And his father’s arms are around him, and Peter says in his ear, “She’d have been almost as proud as I am, son. And only because _no one_ could ever be prouder than me.”

****************

\+ 1: And then one time …

 

Years later, Neal is being interviewed for Time magazine. The interview is conducted in person, and the journalist comes to his studio.

There’s a framed photo on Neal’s desk. An old-fashioned photograph of a man, sitting at a desk, smiling.

“Who’s this?” asks the journalist, curious.

“Oh,” says Neal, smiling fondly. “That’s a photo of my father, from before they adopted me.”

“Was he a good father?”

“You know,” says Neal, “no. He wasn’t. He didn’t ask to be my dad, he didn’t ask for a son like me, but he never hesitated. And he sometimes said he didn’t know what he was doing, but he wasn’t a good father, you have to understand. He was the _best_ father, and he made me who I am today.” And Neal smiles at the reporter.

And his smile, she writes later, “when he spoke of his father, his adoptive father, was terribly sad, and somewhat fierce but at the core of it—deeply, deeply proud.”

*****

_The End, and that’s all she wrote! I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, if you didn’t, if you just want to say hi, drop me a note! I’d love to hear from you! And please make sure to tell Evian how fabulous her artwork is!_

_Thanks for reading :-)._


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